


Odium

by leftfoottrapped (miikkaa_xx)



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Demons, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-31
Updated: 2015-10-31
Packaged: 2018-04-27 10:54:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5045551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miikkaa_xx/pseuds/leftfoottrapped
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. With the ability to interact with the supernatural, Suho makes a living off solving mysterious homicides, until his newest case threatens to break him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Odium

**Author's Note:**

> chen is nonbinary and goes by they/them. (outfit directly inspired by [the chen fanart found here](http://checkp6.wix.com/exo-suitandhighheel#!home/mainPage))
> 
>  **warnings** : language, disturbing imagery involving blood and dead bodies, suho's debilitating mental health, explicit sex. unbeta'd - feel free to point out any errors in prose.

-

‘So,’ starts Changmin, elbows on a desk full of strewn papers, hair a mess as he stares at Junmyeon sitting on the chair across from him. ‘Half the people call you a man of God, the other half call you an occultist.’

Junmyeon’s eyes stray from Changmin to the figure in red lurking behind him, smile stretched across a sharp face. ‘He’s pretty,’ says the mouth.

‘I just look for things other people don’t,’ says Junmyeon eventually.

Changmin seems unimpressed. ‘I heard you have a partner.’ He gestures to the emptiness of the office. ‘Where is he?’

Junmyeon shrugs, shows a strained smile. ‘They are… capricious.’ He tries very hard not to look at the red silhouette behind Changmin. ‘I’ll update them as we go along.’

‘Alright,’ says Changmin with a shrug. He takes a folder from the pile on his desk and opens it, turns it around for Junmyeon to look at. ‘This is what we have so far. Two victims - unrelated. Dead from fatigue and heart failure. Toxicology says there’s no drugs involved. There’s no sign of physical assault whether that’s to entering the premises or upon the person. I was told when cases like this come up - obvious homicides with no evidence, I should call you.’

The figure laughs. ‘We have a reputation now.’

‘Apparently,’ says Junmyeon.

‘What?’ says Changmin.

Junmyeon shakes his head and keeps looking at the folder. ‘If I could have appropriate clearance within your jurisdiction before I begin…’

  
  
  


 - blood on the floor, blood on the restraints, blood everywhere - he’s shaking, he can’t hold his gun straight, faces blur in and out of his vision, but it’s the same face, it’s always the same face - which one is real, please, which one, _which one_ -

  
  
  


‘You should stop reading case notes before bed,’ says Jongdae as they make coffee in Junmyeon’s kitchen. ‘You always have nightmares.’

Junmyeon drags a hand down his face. ‘What time is it?’

‘Seven thirty in the morning,’ they say, voice cheery. ‘I made an appointment for nine at the morgue.’

‘Wonderful.’ He rifles through his fridge for food, only encounters vegetables, low-fat yogurt, and vitamin packs. With a sigh, he grabs the yogurt. ‘Get me something unhealthy next time.’

‘And let your little mortal body rot?’ Jongdae laughs. ‘No way, hyung. I brought you all the ingredients for a breakfast smoothie.’

Junmyeon squints at Jongdae, trying to figure out if they’re joking. It’s hard to tell, of course. Jongdae always looks the same - taken a recent liking to wearing a blood-coloured suit along their lean frame, dark as night button-up underneath, and feet arched into sharp stilettos with silver snake-embossed heels.

‘When do you think the next body will drop?’ he says instead.

Jongdae pours the coffee out into a mug, mixes in two sugars, brings it to Junmyeon. ‘Only a few nights now.’ There’s a glint in their eyes. Junmyeon feels something like want stir under his skin.

‘Better get going,’ he says, taking a sip of his coffee. It’s perfect, as usual. ‘I know how you love a dead body, _Chen_.’

Jongdae grins, sharp and excited.

  
  
  


Park Chanyeol, found dead in a bar bathroom. For a dead guy, Junmyeon doesn’t think he looks all that bad. Eyes closed, peaceful expression, body flat under the sheet, smelling of chemicals, Chanyeol was very clean and untouched considering he possibly died by a serial killer.

The mortician retires to her office for coffee, letting them know they can knock on her door if they need her, and leaves the report behind. It’s a copy of the report Junmyeon already read, but he isn’t here for that. ‘I’ll inspect the body while you look for the bloodwork.’

Jongdae nods, leaves.

Junmyeon at least pretends he’s doing something - folding back the sheet and looking plainly at the mortician’s cuts along the corpse. Chanyeol was a healthy, active young guy. A yuppie, backed from the family fortune and looking to become an entrepreneur. His pictures show a bright smile. His friends call him talkative, funny, _impulsive_. Junmyeon leans forward and pulls back Chanyeol’s eyelid, peering at his brown eye. Just a blank, dead gaze.

After a few minutes - Jongdae is very practiced at this - they come back holding a vial of blood, labelled with ‘PARK, Chanyeol’. Junmyeon takes it, opens it. From the pocket of his jacket, he has another empty vial. Jongdae pops the sterile seal of the new bottle, lets Junmyeon pour in a bit of the blood, and then takes back the original bottle. ‘Let me put this back before someone notices.’

‘Don’t want to watch me work?’ smiles Junmyeon.

Jongdae waves the offer away and leaves again.

Taking a deep breath, Junmyeon stares at the blood in the vial he’s holding before he opens his mouth and drinks it down.

Consume the blood, speak to the flesh. Before him, Chanyeol is sitting up and blinking at him. ‘What’s up?’

Junmyeon shrugs. ‘You were killed by a demon, I want to ask you who did it.’

‘Was I?’ Chanyeol rubs his face, looks around. ‘At the bar, she didn’t look like a demon.’

‘The demon looked like a woman?’

‘Sure, I mean - I was trashed, y’know.’ He laughs, like Junmyeon would understand.

Instead, he just feels strangely old. ‘Right.’ He glances around but Jongdae is still missing. ‘Have you done anything awful recently? Something a demon would target you for?’

Chanyeol pauses, brows furrowing. ‘I’m pretty squeaky clean, man. I mean - me and my buddies, we got high last week, but _everyone_ gets high, right?’

‘Yes,’ agrees Junmyeon. ‘Nothing like cheating on your girlfriend? With a hot girl at the bar? Or maybe a guy?’

Immediately, Chanyeol throws up his hands and scrunches up his face in some universal sign of ‘no homo’. Junmyeon imagines he used to be a fratboy in college. ‘No girlfriend, or boyfriend, no, I’m not that kind of man.’

‘Alright. How about when you were a kid?’

‘What - no,’ scoffs Chanyeol. He looks into his lap, lips tight at the corners. Junmyeon wishes Jongdae was here, but he’s not bad at reading people on the fly. Can sense a lie just as well.

‘Confess to your sins,’ murmurs Junmyeon, leaning forward, smiling sweet and soft when Chanyeol meets his gaze, ‘and rest in peace. That’s all you have to do.’

‘It wasn’t a sin though,’ says Chanyeol, quick, fast, closing up. ‘Don’t call it that.’

‘A mistake.’ Junmyeon stays easy, relaxed. ‘C’mon. Talk to me, you have nothing to lose. No one is here but me.’

Chanyeol stares at him, wide-eyed, for a long while. ‘Our first home burned down. My nanny saved me, y’know. Kept me safe, even when she died.’

Junmyeon nods. ‘A brave person. You’re lucky.’

‘The fire was an accident,’ says Chanyeol. ‘The fire was an accident.’

‘Yes,’ he agrees.

‘The fire…’

‘...was an accident,’ finishes Junmyeon, seeing the guilt written plainly over Chanyeol’s face. ‘Go to rest now.’

Chanyeol lies back down, closes his eyes. From his other pocket, Junmyeon takes out a vial of blessed water. He opens it, turns it over, lets the water spill over his face, along his throat, into the hollow of his clavicle. ‘Let the soul pass.’

Nothing happens except for Jongdae opening the door behind Junmyeon as they re-enter the room. ‘You done?’

‘Demon, revenge killing, a woman. Possibly his nanny,’ says Junmyeon. ‘Let’s do the next body.’

  
  
  


Baekhyun is of the same ilk as Chanyeol. Three years ago, his boyfriend sped off the motorway the night they broke up. Driving while crying and died in a crash. The demon came to him as a man.

‘Seriously gorgeous. Just… a really hot guy, okay.’

Junmyeon puts the soul to rest and scratches his cheek. His mouth tastes of blood. ‘Do we have two revenge demons, or one hunter demon who can do illusions?’

‘Want me to eat them?’ asks Jongdae. They’re sitting on the counter next to the sink, legs swinging back and forth, stiletto hanging off the toes of one arched foot. Just watching has an urge stir in Junmyeon’s chest - wants to trace his fingers along the curve, feel the smoothness of their skin. He tucks his hands into his coat pockets.

‘If you would.’

‘Consume the flesh, taste the spirit,’ sing-songs Jongdae, their heels clicking against the linoleum as they approach Chanyeol’s body first. Junmyeon only steps back and watches Jongdae’s hand extend, one nail growing grotesquely long and sharp. They pry Chanyeol’s mouth open, pinching the tongue, and using the nail to saw through the muscle to get a nice chunk of flesh. Without missing a beat, Jongdae eats the bit of tongue, chews like they savour it and swallows it all.

They repeat with Baekhyun’s tongue. Junmyeon waits patiently until Jongdae is done, before prompting them. ‘So?’

‘Tastes good.’ Jongdae’s eyes are closed; they’re reveling in it. ‘Taste the same too, which means both victims belong to the same demon. God, hyung, it’s so sweet - this one’s killing for pure intentions. Nothing bitter like jealousy, or spiced like anger. Sugar sweet _good_.’

Jongdae moans, eyes half-lidded and dark, and Junmyeon swallows, turns away. ‘Let’s go find them then.’

  
  
  


 - body in a chair, the wrists are bound to the arms of the chair, the ankles to the legs, the chains are streaked red with fresh blood, and there’s a voice crying out, ‘help me! Help me, hyung, please!’ as the wrists and ankles shake and try to escape, escape from another figure, another face - no, the same face, the _same_ -

  
  
  


It’s four thirty in the morning and Junmyeon smells cigarette smoke. He sighs, pushing the blankets away, and walks out of his bedroom to the living room where Jongdae is lounging, sucking deep from the stick before blowing a stream of smoke. ‘Hey, hyung.’

Jongdae’s lashes are long, silhouetted by the light of the street pouring through the window. Their cheekbones look sharper when shadowed, mouth softer and pursed around the cigarette. Their body seems to stretch out with an innate arrogance, making the suit pants ride up, show off the line of bare skin from calf to ankle, and those feet, always arched within their intricate heels. Taking a deep breath, Junmyeon thinks, demons shouldn’t be so beautiful.

‘Don’t burn my place down,’ he says. Then: ‘What happened?’

‘Found a dead body in the back alley of a noraebang place. Haven’t inspected the body yet, so it might be ours, might not.’

‘I need the fresh air,’ says Junmyeon.

‘Another nightmare?’

‘Don’t ask like you don’t know, Jongdae.’

Jongdae takes another long drag. ‘I’ll call you a cab.’

  
  
  


The body of Oh Sehun lies face-flat on the gravel in the middle of the alley.

‘May I please have this space for three minutes for an inspection?’ asks Junmyeon. ‘I have clearance from your supervisor - Shim Changmin, if you would like to call in my badge number.’

Everyone huddles at the mouth of the alley, a good few metres away. Junmyeon places his small black briefcase next to Sehun’s head and opens it. He’ll need a blood sample and a flesh sample. Looking around, Jongdae is gone entirely, and instead he sees a tall man standing just behind him, watching.

‘I’m sorry, but please move to the end of the alley if you would,’ says Junmyeon, standing up, turning to face him.

The man has a somber expression, with soft hair and dark, gentle eyes. ‘You can see me,’ he says, his voice coming from deep within his chest. That’s when Junmyeon notices that his outfit is jeans and a dark jacket - not a uniform at all.

‘Yes. Are you demonic or divine?’

The man inclines his head to the side, looking at the corpse. ‘I am Yifan, a power of God.’

No wonder Jongdae was nowhere to be seen. Junmyeon sighs. ‘Did you kill this kid?’

‘Yes,’ says Yifan. With thick brows and a pink mouth and tall, gentle demeanour, he is also unbearably beautiful. ‘He had to die tonight for God’s plan.’

‘I can’t exactly report that to my mortal seniors,’ says Junmyeon, gesturing to the cops still at the mouth of the alley, waiting for him to be done. ‘According to them, you should be arrested and tried for murder.’

Yifan looks around, slow, contemplative. ‘This does not concern me. I am here to escort the soul to the Heavens.’

The divine are impossible to hold accountable; even Junmyeon couldn’t go against the direct powers of God. ‘Make it look like an accidental death.’

Junmyeon waits and eventually Yifan nods. He flicks his fingers through the air. Gore appears on the corner of a metal pole, half of Oh Sehun’s skull caves in, and black ice appears near his feet. ‘Will this do?’

‘Yes,’ acquiesces Junmyeon. ‘Thank you.’ Then, after a moment. ‘But why did you stick around for so long?’

Yifan shrugs, an oddly human gesture. ‘The stars are very beautiful tonight.’

He looks up, sees a slice of sky between the tall buildings, the glitter in the night sky. He thinks of Jongdae’s dark eyes, the glint that flashes through them. By the time he looks away, Yifan is gone.

Junmyeon packs up his suitcase and walks back to the cops. ‘Accidental death as he slipped on a patch of black ice, hit his head.’

‘Damn,’ says one of the officers, looking away. ‘Just a kid.’

‘It happens,’ murmurs Junmyeon, laying a hand on his shoulder. ‘He’s in a better place now. God simply works in mysterious ways.’

  
  
  


 - the beginning always starts with the climb up the fire escape stairs, _clank clank clank_ go his shoes against the metal, his gun is warm in his hands as he keeps it pointed downwards, thumb near the safety, but eventually he has to stop running, has to face a grey metal door and a doorknob that he must turn, and his instincts are yelling, screaming, _Junmyeon, no, no, no_ -

  
  
  


Chanyeol lives in a nice upper middle-class apartment building, so Junmyeon cannot break in. He brings Jongdae along.

‘If you would,’ he says as they stand in front of the intercom, looking through the directory of tenants.

Jongdae shudders hard, materializing into reality. The only difference Junmyeon sees is that now Jongdae has a shadow when before they didn’t. They press the intercom button and jab in a few random numbers. A voice replies: ‘Yes? Hello?’

With a voice so deep and smooth, Jongdae is halfway to crooning their reply. ‘It’s me, Jongdae-ah, you promised me lunch, don’t you remember?’

If Junmyeon focuses hard enough, he thinks he can see the threads of Jongdae’s magic seeping out from their mouth, pressing and pushing through the speaker holes of the intercom, getting to the other side. Silvertongue, Jongdae had once called it. ‘Only I and another in Hell have this ability,’ they had bragged to Junmyeon one night. ‘The magic to make anyone believe the words you say.’

With a buzz, the door unlocks and Junmyeon opens it. Jongdae ends the conversation before their shadow vanishes, signaling that they are visible only to Junmyeon now.

‘Thank you,’ says Junmyeon.

‘Of course, hyung.’ Jongdae waves. ‘I’ll go check out Baekhyun’s dorm room then.’

  
  
  


It takes a few moments before Junmyeon has picked the lock of the front door, and he steps inside of the apartment. It’s big for one person, separate rooms for much of everything and furnished tastefully. Cream-coloured couches and black accents of lamps and large TV, a fancy coffee maker in the kitchen, a lot of watches and shoes stuffed in the bedroom closet, and a permeating scent of men’s cologne throughout the entire place. Tacky, but Junmyeon figures Chanyeol was rich enough to pull it off.

Nothing seems out of place or demonic. Junmyeon even checks Chanyeol’s laptop, plucks through the receipts he’s left in the trash bin, the pockets of his jeans in the laundry basket. Everything about him is disturbingly normal and cheery.

Junmyeon stands up, walks to the entrance again, and takes another look around. ‘First impressions,’ he murmurs. ‘Money, success, happiness. Enjoyment.’ He peeks into each room again, looks at the pictures of Chanyeol and others. ‘Spoiled, loved. Wanted.’

‘Is that what you don’t like?’ asks Junmyeon to the empty air. ‘How could Chanyeol kill a woman, and remain unaffected? How dare a murderer be happy?’

  
  
  


When he steps out into the hallway - done with Chanyeol’s apartment for now - a flurry of dark clothes runs into him, and Junmyeon gasps, staggers back, when he feels heat on his chest.

‘Shit, shit - !’ says a voice, husky sweet and alarmed. ‘I spilled my coffee on you, I’m so sorry.’

Junmyeon blinks fast, looking up to the face of a tall man. He has a lovely face - angled cheekbones, curved soft lips, eyes glittering with alarm - and Junmyeon is stunned for a moment. Blinking fast, he shakes his head, ‘I wasn’t looking myself, don’t worry about it - ’

‘I should,’ says the other, one hand clutching the cup, the other grasping one of Junmyeon’s. ‘I should worry about it. I live here. Let me at least try to clean it up.’

‘Oh - are you, you a neighbour?’ Neighbours knew stuff, Junmyeon could work with this.

‘More or less,’ he answers. He tugs on Junmyeon’s hand, smiling, eyes looking right down at him.

Junmyeon meets his gaze, smiles back.

  
  
  


Zitao serves Junmyeon ice water and loads his coat into a small washer in the apartment.

‘Rich people,’ murmurs Junmyeon, looking around. The space is laid out as a mirror reflection of Chanyeol’s apartment, differing in decor. The scent too - no longer the cheap cologne Chanyeol washed the air with, but something distinctive, familiar.

He sits on the couch and stares out the window at the cloudy sky, grayscale clouds hanging low, foreshadowing a storm. Damn, he didn’t bring an umbrella.

‘You seem tired,’ says Zitao as he comes back around, sitting beside him, tentative in his expression. ‘The washer takes a while, so you can have a nap.’

Junmyeon shakes his head, sips the water. There’s ice bobbing in the glass, yet he can’t taste the cold. Can’t taste much of anything. The sleep deprivation was getting to him, his senses. ‘I was looking for Chanyeol, your neighbour.’

Zitao nods. ‘Loud guy, a lot of friends.’

‘Anything else?’

‘A happy guy,’ says Zitao. ‘Could afford to be nicer.’

A wave of sleepiness hits Junmyeon, makes his eyelids weigh down. ‘Sorry, you must,’ he gestures vaguely at the apartment, ‘need to work or something.’

‘I’m a photographer,’ says Zitao with a small smile. ‘I can rest for today. What about you?’

‘A writer,’ replies Junmyeon, falling back on a familiar lie. ‘Constantly running around looking for references. Chanyeol’s a friend of a friend of mine - I guess I couldn’t catch him in time.’

‘I don’t know when he’ll be home, you’re welcome to stay here for a while.’

‘I couldn’t do that.’ Junmyeon gives up on the water, puts the glass onto the coffee table in front of him. He looks at Zitao - his lovely eyes, his sweet smile. Junmyeon can’t help it. ‘You’ll have to let me talk to you.’

Zitao laughs, nods. ‘Please.’

‘What do you photograph?’

‘Secrets.’ The other tips his head to the side, mouth pursed in thought. ‘Maybe that’s not right. People and their secrets.’

‘That’s dangerous to do,’ jokes Junmyeon. ‘You won’t know what you’ll find.’

‘True,’ agrees Zitao, still so pleasant. ‘Some secrets are easy to spot.’

‘Are they?’

‘Like… hands.’ Zitao shows his palms, his fingers covered in silver rings. He gestures for Junmyeon to touch. Junmyeon does - Zitao’s skin is warm, soft. For a moment, he thinks of Jongdae’s hands. ‘I don’t work very hard.’

‘You don’t do manual labour,’ corrects Junmyeon gently.

‘Hard work,’ insists Zitao with a small laugh. The sound echoes around Junmyeon; breathless and pitched and infectious. He smiles back, feeling wonderfully warm. ‘You have secrets too.’

‘Doesn’t everyone?’ asks Junmyeon.

Zitao reaches out, slow, his gaze asking for silent permission, which Junmyeon placidly gives by not moving, mouth still pressed in a wry smile. Carefully, Zitao cups Junmyeon’s cheek, thumb dragging under Junmyeon’s eye. ‘There’s shadows here,’ he says, voice hushed. ‘What keeps you up at night? That’s a secret too.’

Junmyeon closes his eyes, focuses on the points where they are connected. Zitao’s fingers soft on his cheek, Zitao’s palm warm under his own hand. ‘Regret.’

Immediately, Zitao draws away, folding his hands into his lap, smile gone, but his gaze is still gentle. ‘You seem so very sad.’

One self-deprecating laugh later, Junmyeon looks down at his lap, thinks of Jongdae. ‘Am I?’

  
  
  


He doesn’t know when he falls asleep on the couch, but he wakes up to a coat folded neatly beside him and a dark, empty apartment.

The rain is pattering against the wide living room windows. At the door is a black umbrella, so Junmyeon slips on his shoes and takes it as he leaves.

  
  
  


‘Byun Baekhyun, happy kid, left behind a heartbroken boyfriend, lots of sad friends,’ says Jongdae, lying on their stomach on Junmyeon’s couch, feet in the air, heels hanging off the toes. They’re flipping through the case file propped up against the arm of the couch, cigarette hanging out of the corner of their mouth.

‘Don’t get ash on my furniture,’ scolds Junmyeon mindlessly, more habit than anything else, even as he sees the ashtray on his coffee table beside Jongdae.

‘Yes, hyung,’ says Jongdae. ‘No demonically altered stuff in Baekhyun’s dorm room. Seem pretty well-adjusted for a college student, though he was on anti-anxiety meds.’

‘What college student isn’t?’

Jongdae snorts, taking another long drag. ‘Anything on your end?’

‘Rich yuppie, bad cologne,’ summarizes Junmyeon as he hangs up his coat, props the open umbrella against his front door to let it air dry. ‘Jongdae…’

‘Yes, hyung?’

‘I love you.’

There’s a pause. ‘I love you too, hyung.’

This exchange is not new, knows Junmyeon as he watches the water droplets drip onto the floor from the umbrella. Yet something about meeting Zitao makes Junmyeon want to push, wants to press further, pick at the scab of these old, still bleeding wounds. Say something they both have known but never out loud. ‘I loved you before I did this to you.’

That gets Jongdae’s attention. When Junmyeon finally lifts his gaze to look at Jongdae, they’re sitting up, cigarette crushed into the ashtray, a trail of smoke dying out in the air between them.

‘You’re finally going to talk about it?’

Junmyeon’s jaw tightens. ‘Fuck you.’

The worst part is that Jongdae does not rise to the bait. They’re patient as ever, watching him. ‘Would you rather that?’

‘Is this Jongdae or Chen that’s talking?’

‘It’s _me_ ,’ they answer. ‘It’s always been just me, Junmyeon. You’re just - ’ Their voice cuts off, expression pained.

‘What am I?’ His eyes burn; he feels cornered, threatened, by something he brought up himself. Junmyeon tries to tamp it down, but it’s no use, and he _hates_ this part of himself.

‘Hyung,’ says Jongdae, shoulders slumped, looking at him with a gaze that borders on _pitying_.

‘Don’t - ’ Junmyeon takes a step back, knocks into the umbrella. It’s still freshly wet, makes Junmyeon think of blood, and his hand flinches away, wipes itself on his sweater. ‘I - I…’

Jongdae stands up, ‘I’ll make coffee.’

They move into the kitchen, leaving Junmyeon alone, and he feels weak, helpless, standing there, words heavy on his tongue, too dead to speak now.

‘Get some rest,’ he hears Jongdae say. ‘You have bruises under your eyes.’

He touches his face, thinks of the yawning chasm between him and Jongdae, thinks of Zitao’s warmth.

  
  
  


The morning is still cloudy as Junmyeon walks around Chanyeol’s neighborhood. He wonders where the demon would have seen him, stalked him, followed him. The university where Baekhyun used to attend is two train stops away from here - close enough to walk between if a demon had nothing else to do.

He walks one station down and enters a park, grabbing a coffee from a vendor, and listening to his footsteps crunch on the still damp gravel of the path. Another rainstorm seems imminent, but Junmyeon has the umbrella hanging off his arm, ready to give back to Zitao.

That’s when he sees Zitao, holding a DSLR between his hands and standing in the middle of one of the many park paths, taking a picture of something or another. Junmyeon looks around - late autumn meant that most of the trees were stark, grotesque finger-branches stretching out from each other. Near the middle of the park, the trees retain some leaves, coloured in golds and reds, as they desperately hang on, and Zitao is aiming his camera towards them.

‘Leaves aren’t people,’ says Junmyeon, approaching him.

Zitao lowers his camera and looks over, smiles in pleased surprise. ‘You’re back.’

‘I borrowed this.’ Junmyeon holds out the umbrella, but Zitao waves it off.

‘More rain,’ he says. ‘Keep it, hyung.’

Junmyeon blinks in surprise. ‘I didn’t tell you my age.’

In reply, Zitao aims the DSLR at Junmyeon, adjusts the lens. ‘Your face does.’ The shutter clicks.

‘Are you calling me old?’

‘Wise,’ amends Zitao, lowering the camera and grinning at him, teasing. Junmyeon can’t resist that expression, finds himself smiling back.

‘Nice save.’ He follows when Zitao gestures for them to walk along the path together. The park has a few people around, but not many, just blurry faces in the distance, along other paths winding through the grass and trees. Junmyeon focuses on Zitao instead; it’s easy to do when Zitao is still as beautiful as ever with his cheekbones, his lips, the curve of his nose.

‘I am taking pictures of the park’s secrets,’ says Zitao when they’ve found a bench. He carefully places his camera back in his bag hanging off his shoulder, looks out at the expanse of dying grass in front of them. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Writing research.’ Junmyeon stretches his legs out, takes a sip of his coffee. ‘Weather, atmosphere.’

‘What are you writing about?’

‘A crime novel.’

Zitao hums. ‘Are you playing the murderer in the park?’

Junmyeon laughs. ‘I guess I am.’

‘What’s the murderer like?’

He remembers Jongdae in the morgue, their face of bliss as they consumed the flesh of the dead. ‘A master of illusions,’ starts off Junmyeon grandly, ‘but more than that, someone with purpose. There’s something wrong with the world that needs to be fixed.’

‘Does it?’ asks Zitao softly.

‘I don’t know,’ says Junmyeon, and the words come out painfully, with claws of truth that scrape up his esophagus. ‘Avenging deaths that could’ve been prevented is this person’s cause, but are they killing murderers?’

‘Would that make it right? If the victims were proven to be murderers?’ Zitao looks at him, expression open and curious.

‘I don’t know,’ repeats Junmyeon. His throat hurts.

  
  
  


The rain wakes Junmyeon up. It splashes cold against the skin of his hand and he looks around, panicks for a moment, before he remembers.

He had been talking to Zitao when Zitao bid him goodbye. There was no coffee cup, but the umbrella was beside him, and now was Jongdae.

‘Hey,’ croaks out Junmyeon, voice still sleep-rough. ‘When did you get here?’ He opens the umbrella, holds it over himself, as the rain begins to come down.

Jongdae shrugs. ‘Lost track of time.’ Junmyeon supposes that’s a thing they didn’t have to worry about, as a demon and all.

‘I know I’m running away,’ says Junmyeon. ‘Which is the part I hate the most. That I _know_ I’m weak.’ Beside him, Jongdae doesn’t reply. He sighs. ‘You’re not going to make this easy for me.’

‘Of course not,’ says Jongdae. ‘I’ve been making this easy for you for months now. Almost a year. By keeping my mouth shut.’

‘You’re too good to me, Jongdae.’

‘Am I?’ Jongdae is smiling a little now, their lips curving at the corners, indented with silent laughter.

Junmyeon reaches up, brushes his thumb along one of the corners. ‘Your mouth is beautiful.’

Jongdae nips at his thumb, grins outright now. ‘Would you like to kiss it?’

‘Yes,’ he answers, desperately honest.

It’s enough. Jongdae pulls Junmyeon close, kisses him hard, but sweet, adoring. It feels like coming home, just for a little while.

  
  
  


 - the same nightmare, the same setting, the same door, the same stupid mistake, but Junmyeon can hear the yelling behind it, of course he has to open this door, and there they are, his Jongdae, tied to the chair and streaked in blood, yelling, ‘hyung - help, _hyung_ \- ’ so what choice did Junmyeon have when he raised his gun, when he took aim at the figure behind his Jongdae - except that’s not right, not right at all - the faces are the same - Jongdae and the murderer - their faces are the same - two beautiful, perfect faces - so which one are you going to shoot, Junmyeon?

  
  
  


It’s seven in the morning when the call comes to Junmyeon’s cell phone. ‘Another body, confirmed for your case.’

He takes a shower and comes out to Jongdae handing him a large glass. ‘Your breakfast smoothie.’

‘Thanks,’ says Junmyeon, voice flat, but drinks it anyway under Jongdae’s happy gaze. ‘Shall we head to the morgue then?’

  
  
  


The mortician is there, accompanied by a detective, when Junmyeon arrives. Jongdae lingers near the entrance of the room as they watch the scene. Junmyeon doesn’t ask for them to come near - didn’t need people asking why he was talking to thin air anyway - and introduces himself to the detective.

‘My name is Minseok,’ answers the other with a small smile before looking back down at the body the mortician was undressing. She hadn’t a chance at investigating it thoroughly yet - only got the body transferred over here from the crime scene recently, she explains to Junmyeon.

‘But cause of death is fatigue and heart failure?’ he asks, looking over at the corpse.

‘So says Yixing,’ says Minseok, nodding his head to the mortician. Yixing replies with a pretty dimpled smile at the acknowledgement as she continues to work. ‘I was on his case - the victim’s. Do Kyungsoo.’

‘His case?’

Minseok nods. ‘He was found in an abandoned warehouse, with all his tools and whatnot. There was an emergency call for an ambulance to get his body, but the call was traced to Kyungsoo’s apartment, not the actual warehouse. We’re assuming it’s the second killer.’

‘I’m not following,’ confesses Junmyeon, shooting a glance over his shoulder at Jongdae, who is still watching, waiting.

‘They really didn’t fill you in, huh?’ Minseok’s smile is a little tired but sympathetic. ‘I was on the case for a series of murders over the past couple years - and with all the tools in the warehouse, it seems like Kyungsoo was my guy. Your serial killer got to mine first before I did.’ He scratches his cheek. ‘I guess that saves me paperwork.’

‘No trial, just execution,’ pipes up Yixing, folding Kyungsoo’s clothes and placing them aside. She brings over a rolling trolley laid out with her miscellaneous tools of trade - tongs, scalpels, tweezers, gloves, and the rest.

Junmyeon requests a sample of blood while he still can, and Yixing hands him an unlabelled vial of it without question. Minseok raises an eyebrow when he sees Junmyeon pocket it but doesn’t comment, just sighs deeply and makes the motions to leave.

‘You’re not as happy about this as you say,’ says Junmyeon softly.

Minseok laughs a little at that, coat in his hands as he shrugs. ‘I wanted him alive - I wanted to know where the rest of the bodies are hidden. Give those bodies a proper farewell.’ He looks at Junmyeon, expression contemplative. ‘But we’ll dig around that warehouse. Something will turn up.’

Junmyeon cups the bottle of blood in his coat pocket. ‘Minseok, right? I’ll - I’ll tell you if I find anything.’

‘Thanks,’ he replies, and smiles just a little wider and warmer this time before he leaves.

  
  
  


Jongdae does not linger as Junmyeon drinks the blood, talks with Kyungsoo.

After it’s done, he asks Yixing where Minseok works and receives his work cell phone number.

They meet up at the warehouse, and Junmyeon leads Minseok to the abandoned apartment construction site a half an hour’s walk from there. Minseok doesn’t seem to mind the chill in the air, nor Junmyeon’s company, even while Junmyeon says twice the words Minseok does.

He can’t help it - thinks he’s getting a little overeager, but there’s something nice in having a companion who knows the job, doesn’t mind Junmyeon’s little eccentricities so far, at least not outwardly so.

‘Are you going to murder me too?’ jokes Minseok as they walk and Junmyeon laughs, looking up at the sky and glad it’s clear and blue today, even if the air is still cold, makes him huddle in his layers under his coat.

‘And take you away from this happy, fun job as a homicide detective? How could I?’

Minseok smiles. ‘I do like my job. Surprisingly.’

Junmyeon looks at him, the way Minseok’s cheekbones are highlighted by the sunshine, how his lashes frame the soft, lovely brown of his eyes. ‘Even after so many years?’

‘There’s good in it,’ answers Minseok, nodding, almost to himself, but he doesn’t seem like he’s doubtful, trying to reassure himself in his belief. It’s the steadiness in his voice, the calmness of his demeanour, that makes him sure, confident. ‘Stopping death, and - in a way - bringing peace to the dead. The living too.’

Junmyeon hums. ‘The families do like it when you find their person rather than declare them missing. Even if that person is dead.’

‘Giving them a definitive answer,’ says Minseok in agreement. ‘Would you call yourself a good person?’

‘No,’ he replies immediately.

It has Minseok nodding, ‘I don’t think I am either - what kind of person _wants_ to chase murderers?’ He pulls his ID from the back pocket of his jeans, flicks it open to show Junmyeon. The picture shows Minseok with shorter hair, clearly from the past, but he doesn’t seem to have aged. Perhaps all beauty is like that - eternal, muses Junmyeon. His thoughts are interrupted when Minseok says, ‘this is good, though. So that’s enough for me.’

  
  
  


Junmyeon stands outside the abandoned construction site while Minseok ducks inside for a few minutes. He comes out holding a notebook and talking on his cell phone, ‘yeah, found three victims’ bodies here, send over someone from the morgue to the address - yeah, I’ll wait.’

He hangs up, pockets the phone, and shows Junmyeon the notebook that has a list of names in neat handwriting. ‘These three were the ones that were missing.’

‘And here they are,’ remarks Junmyeon. The taste of Kyungsoo’s blood lingers on his tongue.

‘Thanks,’ says Minseok. He seems relaxed, less tired, face blooming into a lovely appreciating smile.

‘After this, we should go for lunch,’ says Junmyeon on impulse.

The other raises his eyebrows, words careful. ‘I have a boyfriend…’

It takes a moment for embarrassment to settle hotly on Junmyeon’s cheeks and he shakes his head, stuttering, ‘I don’t mean - no, I - ’ Impulsively, he thinks of Zitao, and blurts out, ‘I’m dating too, I didn’t mean it that way, I’m just - it’s - ’

He’s relieved of speaking when Minseok laughs, claps a hand on Junmyeon’s shoulder. ‘Lunch then.’

‘Yes,’ says Junmyeon, almost slumping in relief. Loneliness lingers around him for but a second later, then dissipates, replaced by a warm blanket of  something like friendship, something Junmyeon realizes he strongly missed.

  
  
  


‘You had a good day today,’ says Jongdae when Junmyeon comes home.

‘Yes,’ he answers honestly. He thinks he’s getting better at that - not shying away from Jongdae anymore.

For a lovely, singular moment, Junmyeon makes the mistake of thinking he’s going to be okay.

  
  
  


 - media res, to begin in the middle. Stop that, Junmyeon. Back to the beginning. What is the beginning? You’re going up the stairs. You’re opening a door. You’re standing, alone, before that threshold. Jongdae is tied to a chair, and they are yelling for you to help. Jongdae is standing behind the chair, seemingly surprised at the sight of you. Which one is your Jongdae, Junmyeon? The Jongdae in the chair is covered in blood. The Jongdae that is standing is holding a knife. Which one deserves to die? Which one, Junmyeon? Which one are you going to kill? Whose murder are you going to get away with? No wonder you like chasing murderers, Junmyeon, you’re one yourself.

  
  
  


At three in the morning, he wakes up and trips into the bathroom, is sick.

  
  
  


Five hours later, Junmyeon is sitting at Changmin’s desk, looking at Changmin whose arms are crossed, staring down at him balefully. ‘So?’

There’s a chair beside Junmyeon’s, and Jongdae sits in it, running a hand through their hair so their bangs fall into their eyes. Beautiful, thinks Junmyeon, as always.

‘The killer does research into the victim’s background in order to identify any preventable deaths associating with them. Especially if the death has had no adverse effects on the victim’s life. The killer then befriends the victim, in order to explain how there is no struggle or break-in, and slips in some sort of drug for the victim to ingest and die from seeming fatigue.’

‘The toxicology reports came back with nothing,’ replies Changmin, brows pulled together.

‘I asked them to run specific tests on the bloodwork again,’ says Junmyeon, pulling a manila folder from his bag, and tossing it onto Changmin’s desk. ‘Look again.’ He does this every time - has Jongdae spike the blood work with something after tests are done to make sure there’s a logical, non-demonic explanation for everything.

Changmin does. His expression softens, acceptance bleeding into the previous unimpressed tightness of his mouth.

‘The killer has a jurisdiction,’ continues Junmyeon. ‘At the back of the reports, you’ll find a map outlined with what I suspect the hunting ground limits are - based on the three killings so far. Now I just need bait.’

‘A lot of people in this country have been involved in death somehow,’ says Changmin slowly.

Jongdae laughs - loud yet unknown to Changmin altogether. Junmyeon nods, ‘you’re right.’

‘Just bring the killer in,’ says Changmin, eyes narrowing as he keeps watching Junmyeon.

‘I will.’ He stands up, bows, takes his bag, the umbrella beside him too, and leaves.

  
  
  


This is how it happens. Junmyeon sits in the corner of a coffee shop, looking out the window at the park across the street, wondering if Chanyeol ever walked through here, Baekhyun too, maybe Kyungsoo, when he hears the tinkle of the coffee shop door open and sees Zitao.

Zitao goes to the counter, gets his drink, and stands there for a moment, holding the cup, his tall, lean figure swathed in a dark coat and scarf, looking untouchably gorgeous, before he spots Junmyeon. He smiles - toothy and bright. Junmyeon can’t help it, he smiles back.

‘Are you following me?’ asks Zitao, eyebrow raised, tone more flirtatious than anything.

‘If only for this,’ says Junmyeon, gesturing to the umbrella beside him. ‘When will you take it back?’

‘When you’re done with it,’ he replies.

‘You don’t have your camera with you.’

Zitao shakes his head, unbuttoning his coat. ‘My day off.’

‘Slacking?’ Junmyeon teases - can’t help it, because it makes Zitao go shy, fingers stumbling over each other, as he peeks up from under his lashes, shakes his head vehemently.

‘Of course not!’

And so they talk - like this, drifting in and out of each other’s words, and Junmyeon is enraptured by it all. The way Zitao’s voice is so pitched, breathless with enthusiasm, the lovely dart of his eyes, well-formed shape of his lips, the cut of his cheekbones. Everything of him so entrancing to watch, to know, as Zitao amuses him with stories of this and that.

Eventually, as always, there is a lull. Sunset lingers in the sky - coming too early in the early winter months. The clouds are streaked in orange-red when Junmyeon looks out the window, when he hears Zitao ask, ‘what is your novel about?’

‘It’s about a man, named Suho,’ says Junmyeon. ‘He’s a detective.’

‘I remember - it’s a crime novel,’ hums Zitao.

‘To make it even more cliche, he’s in love with his partner.’ He shrugs, self-deprecation tucked away at corners of his smile. ‘His partner doesn’t know, of course.’

‘A love story then?’ Zitao’s eyes are soft, watchful.

‘Not quite. It gets dramatic.’

‘Plot twists,’ laughs Zitao.

‘Yes,’ grins Junmyeon. ‘On the hunt for a killer, his partner calls him one day, asks him to come meet him somewhere. What he doesn’t know is that his partner is in the same room as the killer.’

‘And?’

  
  
  


And?

The door swings open to reveal an empty room in an empty apartment. Jongdae is standing there, knife in hand and blood drying over their skin, and another figure is strapped into a chair, blood on them too. When they raise their face, it’s another Jongdae - the same lashes, lips, cheekbones - and Junmyeon’s heart thuds in his throat as he flicks his gaze between them both, automatically raises his gun to point at the Jongdae with the knife.

‘Jongdae?’ he asks, voice hoarse. His hands are shaking.

‘Hyung,’ both of them say, eyes bright. The one strapped to the chair has blood on the rope bindings. Their mouth is open and pleading, ‘help me, hyung, _please_ \- ’

‘Who are you?’ He grips his gun tighter within his hands.

‘What?’ The one with the knife seems surprised. ‘It’s me, hyung, Jongdae.’

‘Don’t listen to him,’ starts the one in the chair. ‘Please, look at me, don’t you know it’s me - !’

Jongdae’s lip curls, wielding the knife to press the blade to the other Jongdae’s throat. ‘Shut up.’

‘Put down the knife,’ manages Junmyeon, flicking his gaze between them both. ‘Do it.’

‘Hey…’ Jongdae looks up, seemingly confused for a moment. ‘No, hyung, _I’m_ your partner, not this one.’

‘Hyung, no - ’

Junmyeon steadies his gun, aiming at Jongdae’s temple. ‘Put down the weapon before I shoot.’

‘You wouldn’t shoot me,’ murmurs Jongdae, eyes dark, daring Junmyeon to pull the trigger.

In the chair, Jongdae doesn’t nod nor encourage, just watches.

‘Put it down, Jongdae.’

The knife slides away from Jongdae’s throat, rests on their shoulder, still too close for comfort. ‘I’m going to have to bleed this one out, hyung. They shapeshift.’

‘Humans don’t shapeshift,’ replies Junmyeon.

‘They’re not a human,’ says the Jongdae in the chair. ‘Please don’t let them kill me, hyung.’

‘I won’t,’ reassures Junmyeon automatically. It has the Jongdae holding the knife pause, something in their expression shifting.

‘Hyung, you think I’m the demon,’ they say slowly.

‘Jongdae, please - the knife.’

‘You think a demon would let themselves get tied up like this?’ retorts the other Jongdae.

There’s a sinking feeling in the pit of Junmyeon’s gut. They’re both wearing the same faces, the same clothes, the same _mannerisms_. The way both their gazes are a weight, mouth thinned out in seriousness, the deliberate way they move their hands, shoulders, body.

He steadies his gun, flicks off the safety. ‘Put down the gun.’

Jongdae watches him, eyes unflinching. ‘If you’re going to kill me, say so. But time is running out and blood magic only lasts so long.’

The one in the chair’s eyes widen, tries to look over their shoulder, ‘hyung - they’re going to - ’

Problem is they’ve only been partners for six months and Junmyeon is frantically close-lipped about his personal life, doesn’t have anything for Jongdae to go by to identify him, even when he sometimes wishes - desperately - that they were closer. But it doesn’t work like that, and this platonic, distanced relationship will not save them.

The blade glints in the light as Jongdae readies it, right at the other Jongdae’s throat. ‘You’ll shoot me but that means you’ll let this one go, hyung, and I won’t risk that.’

Within the chair, Jongdae struggles against their bonds in alarm, expression painted with terror, and Junmyeon doesn’t think. He pulls the trigger.

And?

  
  
  


‘And Suho kills them.’

Zitao nods. ‘The wrong one.’

‘The one he loves.’

  
  
  


His hands are shaking so much that he’s sure he’ll drop his gun. Junmyeon slips it back into his hip holster, and tries to blink past his blurring vision at Jongdae, safe now, in their chair.

‘Let me, let me untie you,’ starts Junmyeon, voice raspy.

‘No need,’ says Jongdae. ‘Now that the master of the blood is dead, the magic to tie me down doesn’t work anymore.’

Junmyeon looks up quickly, chill sliding down his spine as he sobers up against the waves of horror that are trying to pull him under. It’s still Jongdae, sitting, dressed in jeans and a button-up shirt, as lovely as ever - but the coldness in his gaze has Junmyeon flinching back.

For a moment, he’s sure he’s hallucinating from the shock to his system - the bloodstained ties around Jongdae’s ankles and wrists transfigure themselves into snakes, slide away, leaving Jongdae free.

‘Haven’t you ever heard of demons?’ snorts Jongdae - but that’s not right - as they stand up. ‘Your partner was smarter than you. Jongdae, was it? I’m Chen’

‘No,’ murmurs Junmyeon, eyes flicking to the blood pooling on the floor, the stillness of the figure lying there. ‘No, no, no, no.’

‘Yes,’ hisses Chen, face slit open with a wide grin. ‘How’s it feel? Being a killer.’

Immediately, Junmyeon has his gun in his hands again, fires off three rounds into the demon’s skull. The holes are there, but no blood leaks out from the wounds, and the demon seems unaffected as they look at Junmyeon, blinking seemingly in surprise.

‘I’m afraid that doesn’t work, or else your partner would have done it.’ Chen tuts. ‘You’re not listening, are you?’

Junmyeon’s voice is low. ‘Bring Jongdae back.’

‘Why?’ Chen strolls over to Jongdae’s body, brushes their fingers over the face so Jongdae’s eyelids close. So they look like they’re sleeping in their own pool of blood. ‘What will you offer me?’

‘What do you want?’ he snaps.

‘Give me your soul in exchange for his,’ says the other. They look over their shoulder at Junmyeon standing there, a glint in their eyes. ‘Usually you have to kill the body to get to the soul, but if you voluntarily gave me yours… that would be more than enough.’

‘Take it then.’ He aims the gun at his own temple. ‘Like this?’

Chen clicks their tongue. ‘No need. Though you’ve killed your partner’s body, and they’ll need a new one.’

‘Make them one.’

‘This one.’ Chen gestures at the face they’re wearing - Jongdae’s beautiful face, with lovely dark eyes and pretty lips and high cheekbones. ‘Your soul in exchange for this one’s.’

‘Just do it,’ says Junmyeon, hands shaking again, wanting to vomit. ‘Please, _please_ , just _do it_ \- ’

Then the demon is kissing Junmyeon, drinking his soul, and everything goes dark.

  
  
  


Junmyeon wakes up with tears running down his cheeks.

Across the table is Jongdae, chin propped in their palm as they look out the window. The sky is dark and the coffee shop is half-empty. The umbrella rests against Junmyeon’s leg, untouched.

‘It’ll be almost a year soon,’ says Jongdae. ‘Is that why the nightmares are getting worse?’

‘A year, since I killed you,’ says Junmyeon, feeling exhausted. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘I’m not,’ they say, still watching people walk past the window, the cars, the traffic. Everyone still _alive_ behind a sheet of glass. ‘You told me you loved me after I woke up in this - Chen’s - body, and that’s when I knew it was okay.’

‘You can’t base your faith on your emotions like that,’ says Junmyeon.

‘So I should only consider facts?’

These are the facts: Junmyeon shot Jongdae in the skull, Junmyeon brought him back as a demon, Junmyeon has no soul and is eternally damned when he dies.

‘Yes,’ he says.

‘And become you?’ Jongdae turns from the window to Junmyeon, nails him down with their gaze. ‘Always trying to play things off like they don’t affect you. Looking at reality like it’s all black and white, good and bad.’

Junmyeon looks down into his lap, feeling chastened, but doesn’t cave. ‘This is bad. I made us bad. It was me.’

He doesn’t expect for Jongdae’s hand to cup his cheek, patiently wipe away the wetness still left there. ‘Let’s just go home, hyung.’

So they do.

  
  
  


Minseok is coming off an all-night shift when he texts Junmyeon for breakfast, and Junmyeon joins him, unable to sleep anyway.

‘You smell like smoke,’ remarks Minseok when Junmyeon finds him in a back booth in the diner.

Junmyeon thinks of Jongdae chain-smoking in his apartment as they read over the case files for the fifteenth time already. With no need to sleep nor eat, Jongdae was even more intense and scrutinizing than they were as a human.

‘My roommate,’ replies Junmyeon with a pleasant smile, strained at the edges.

Minseok nods, taking a sip of his coffee and closing his eyes. ‘I needed a little company after tonight’s mess.’

For a moment, Junmyeon doesn’t know what to make of that. Doesn’t really consider himself a calming person when he feels like he’s made of jagged edges, constantly vibrating in tension. He thinks of Zitao’s smile then, the softness in his eyes when they talk, how Junmyeon’s shoulders can relax at the sight of him. ‘I understand,’ he says, meaning it.

When they get food and more coffee, Minseok looks up at him with an inquiring eye. ‘I haven’t noticed you in the precinct before the morgue - a recent transfer?’

‘Something like that,’ says Junmyeon, laughing dryly. ‘I guess you haven’t heard the rumours?’

Minseok’s mouth twitches, and he ducks his head. ‘Only that your partner… found out as a killer, and you having to… damn, Junmyeon. How did you come back to this job?’

Junmyeon shakes his head. ‘I was of course investigated for firing my weapon and took a few months off, but during that time, I learned some things about myself, and I...’ He curls his hands around his coffee mug; something to hold onto. ‘I had to come back.’

‘This your first case after coming back then?’ Minseok shakes his head, makes a sympathetic noise. ‘Must be rough.’

‘Actually,’ says Junmyeon, seeming almost embarrassed by the fact, ‘this is my twelfth? After I came back, I worked on a bunch of cold-cases, and then started getting passed around the precincts when they ran into problems in their own homicide cases.’

‘So what you’re saying is that you’re _good_ ,’ teases the other.

Junmyeon can’t help but laugh, just a little. ‘I just… don’t want what happened to my partner to happen again.’ The coffee is warm when he takes a sip. ‘But it’s silly, isn’t it - the idea of a bad person trying to do good in the world.’

Minseok’s expression is thoughtful and lined with exhaustion. ‘It depends on what reason.’ He reaches over, curling fingers around Junmyeon’s wrist in a comforting gesture. ‘Are you trying to find some sort of redemption? Or are you just running away?’

The answer claws at Junmyeon’s throat, wanting to come out, but Junmyeon drinks down his coffee and pulls his hand away. Minseok’s gaze seems sad.

  
  
  


‘Do you remember,’ drawls Jongdae, ‘the demons that helped us?’

It’s two in the morning and Junmyeon has insomnia. He sits on the couch, watching re-runs of dramas on his TV, with Jongdae’s head pillowed in his lap and his fingers idly combing through the hair.

‘Yes,’ answers Junmyeon, not wondering that they want, but unable to deny his Jongdae anything. He looks down the length of Jongdae’s figure - the silk, the blood-red colour, the shine of their heels when they kick their feet up through the air.

‘Do you ever… ever think of becoming them?’ Jongdae’s voice is hushed, tentative. Junmyeon keeps petting them, trying to ease their nervousness, even as he shakes his head.

‘I think it’s enough that my soul is going to hell, I don’t think I want to turn into a demon like Kai did.’

‘At least you know you’re not alone in selling their soul as a human,’ offers Jongdae, turning onto their side to watch the TV screen as well, not letting Junmyeon watch their expression. ‘Then again, you see the divine, maybe you’ll go to heaven.’

‘You think so?’ hums Junmyeon, tracing the shell of Jongdae’s ear, thumbing the earring there. ‘Right now I just want…’

‘What?’ they ask softly.

But there’s nothing to be said. He clears his throat. ‘That month with them was something though…’

‘Even Kai looked nauseous after he told you to drink that blood,’ laughs Jongdae. ‘And then you _did_ , unbelievable.’

They both laugh this time, but it’s only a pall thrown over the mountain of things unsaid. All the sharp edges of their relationship tucked away for tonight, at least. Jongdae is still a little tense, fidgety, but at least they stay. Stays close and tucked next to Junmyeon.

He tries not to think of how Taemin and Jongdae got along, even if Taemin was a full-fledged demon. Tries to shove away the thoughts of possible immortality with Jongdae. That Kai had sold his soul as a human to bring Taemin back, and during death, chose demonhood to continue being with them. That Junmyeon has the same option constantly hangs over his head - he can’t bear it.

Demons are bad, he thinks. Demons are bad bad _bad_ , but also terribly untouchably _beautiful_ , and his lovely Jongdae is a demon too.

It doesn’t matter. Junmyeon would continue on cases done by demons and drag them to a painful justice with blood magic and divinely-blessed restraints. Make sure they’re kept in isolation for their eternity to pay back their sins of murdering innocent people.

Innocence, thinks Junmyeon, is also not up for debate.

Nothing is. Jongdae’s voice echoes between his ears: _looking at reality like it’s all black and white_. But this is the only way Junmyeon can live. The only way he can continue on like this - chasing shadows and driving himself to exhaustion and look at Jongdae’s face without wanting to cry. It’s the only way.

  
  
  


When Junmyeon runs into Zitao next, he’s using the umbrella. There’s a thin layer of snow blanketing the city streets, and Junmyeon is huddling in his coat, scarf wrapped entirely around the lower part of his face and ears, umbrella open against the snowflakes coming down. It’s honestly surprising that Zitao recognizes him while he’s walking, having just finished inspecting Kyungsoo’s apartment.

‘Hyung,’ he calls out, voice still so sweet, and something like the eager warmth of anticipation fills Junmyeon’s chest as he turns around, matching Zitao’s smile for his own when their eyes meet. ‘It _is_ you.’

‘Zitao,’ says Junmyeon, pulling the scarf down, as he takes in how lovely Zitao looks swathed in a maroon peacoat, black leather gloves, boots. He has a camera bag hanging at his hip. ‘You out taking pictures?’

‘Just finished, I’m heading home.’ Zitao gestures along the street they’re on. ‘Want to catch dinner with me?’

‘Yes,’ says Junmyeon without a moment’s thought.

  
  
  


Zitao has always been enamouring from the start. His voice, his expressions, the purposeful way he moves his hands in his conversation, eager but trying to impress. Everything about him charms Junmyeon, and he can’t help it, wants more than anything to kiss Zitao when they’re done dinner, and Zitao is peeking shyly from under his lashes when Junmyeon pays the bill.

‘You don’t have to do that,’ he says when they’re outside.

‘Don’t I?’ asks Junmyeon. He reaches up, slides his hand over Zitao’s throat the way Jongdae does to him, finds it a comforting touch.

‘Come home with me,’ exhales Zitao as he folds over, and Junmyeon nods, presses their mouths together right there.

  
  
  


Fuckng Zitao is an experience.

As beautiful as Zitao is in his clothes, he overwhelmingly gorgeous exposed and vulnerable. There are countries of skin for Junmyeon to map out with his mouth, his hands, as he drives Zitao to a gasping mess.

Of course, he takes his time. Doesn’t want Zitao to feel like Junmyeon has missed anything about him - from the desperation painted so lovingly along the curve of Zitao’s throat, the arch of his collarbone, to the sheer pleasure in the open sweep of his bottom lip, the curl of his toes into the sheets.

Junmyeon could drown in this - in the perfect way Zitao moans ‘hyung,’ when Junmyeon flicks his tongue over a nipple, or the shiver when Junmyeon spreads open Zitao’s thighs, the hitched breaths as Junmyeon slides his first finger inside of Zitao’s pretty, tight hole.

Even while his expression is bleary with lust, Zitao is still watchful, attentive, trying to keep up with Junmyeon when Junmyeon kisses him and fingerfucks him, makes sure Zitao does not miss out on a single sensation.

It’s different than fucking Jongdae, he thinks hazily while listening to Zitao mewl, ‘ _please_ , fuck - _oh_ \- ’ when Junmyeon stretches out his hole. Jongdae is overwhelming in their own way, often making Junmyeon feel small, feel cut open, all the ugly parts of him exposed to the light. They don’t fuck often because of that - because Junmyeon doesn’t want Jongdae to see.

With Zitao, Junmyeon’s thoughts are gone, wiped clean and replaced with only how he can make Zitao feel good. Zitao - who loves praise and validation and tries so hard to please - is utterly _perfect_ for Junmyeon, because Junmyeon wants to blanket him with attention. Wants Zitao to know he is worth the focus, the intensity, that Junmyeon gives him now.

‘Going to fuck you now,’ says Junmyeon against Zitao’s mouth, and Zitao moans, nods, as he holds his thighs open.

Junmyeon makes sure he’s sure and steady, fucking his cock with a rhythm that has Zitao gasping every time the other’s cock hits him just right. He wants to stay like this forever - between Zitao’s legs, sliding into his hot, tight ass, watching Zitao fall apart over the bed sheets in such exquisite detail.

It’s in the ways Zitao’s stomach tightens, the muscles in his thighs jump, the tendon straining at his neck, and sweat beading on his temple - Junmyeon can’t look away, only wants to keep watching, so he keeps fucking, throwing his weight behind each thrust so he gets in deep.

‘Feels so good,’ gasps out Zitao, his back arching off the mattress, arms above his head, clawing into the pillows. ‘Hyung, _fuck_ , you feel _so_ good - ’

Junmyeon presses against Zitao’s legs, gets Zitao’s knees right close to his own chest, and fucks in that much harder, faster, wanting to give Zitao everything. The change in pace has Zitao choking on his breath, can’t manage phrases anymore, as he simply _takes_ it.

‘So gorgeous,’ says Junmyeon, needing to say it out loud. Zitao probably already knows - it seems like an undeniable fact how beautiful Zitao is to Junmyeon. ‘So fucking lovely.’

Zitao preens, even as he moans and tries to rock back on each thrust, meet Junmyeon’s rhythm and milk his dick that pumps inside of him. ‘Hyung - _hyung_ \- ’

Like this, Junmyeon can lose himself in Zitao. Nothing matters in this room - not what’s waiting for him at the precinct, nor the arc of Jongdae’s lips pursed around a cigarette, or the stiff bodies of the dead. There’s only Zitao - so flush with desire and open and all for Junmyeon’s taking.

‘You’re perfect,’ says Junmyeon, meaning it with every fibre of his being, as he rocks his cock inside of Zitao, other hand sliding down Zitao’s flat stomach until he’s circling fingers around the hard length.

The friction makes Zitao keen, thrusting his hips so his cock can slide between the circle of Junmyeon’s hand. It makes his muscles strain, makes his golden skin gleam with sweat from his effort, makes him look _beautiful_ as he falls apart.

Junmyeon sets a new rhythm - slows his hips down so he’s just slamming his cock inside of Zitao in deep, grinding thrusts, while pulling at Zitao’s dick, stroking him off in counterpoint to each thrust. It seems to overwhelm Zitao for a moment - making him choke on a noise - before he’s rolling his hips to the pattern.

This way, Junmyeon can incite all the more pretty noises from Zitao. How Zitao gets loud when Junmyeon rubs hard over the leaking slit of his cock, or the whimpers that come from him if Junmyeon plays with his balls, so tight up against Zitao’s body, showing how much he wants to come.

‘Do you want to come?’ asks Junmyeon, enraptured by the entire sight, as he keeps fucking Zitao, jerking his cock too.

‘ _Yes_ ,’ hisses Zitao, ‘please, hyung, let me - ’

‘Show me, show me how you come,’ he says, voice gone breathless with anticipation. He drives his dick deep into Zitao’s ass, makes sure the angle is right so he’s nailing into Zitao’s prostate, makes his cock spit out more and more globs of precome.

Junmyeon’s hand is so slick as he keeps jerking off Zitao, and he almost wants to stop, to drag this out with his mouth over Zitao’s dick, sucking on the crown until Zitao is squirming. Another time, he thinks - then feels something bloom in his chest, warm and crowding up against his rib cage. Another time - another meeting with Zitao, another moment caught with him, another scene of Zitao smiling, easing Junmyeon, so easy, so good, so well -

On the bed, Zitao is mewling, hips getting frantic, trying to catch more friction on his cock from Junmyeon’s hand, moaning as Junmyeon’s rides over the sensitive rim of Zitao’s asshole. ‘Perfect Tao,’ gasps out Junmyeon, ‘want to fuck you forever.’

‘ _Please_ ,’ sobs out Zitao, and that seems to be it. His cock twitches and he’s coming, spurts of semen over Junmyeon’s hand, his own stomach, as he keeps trying to fuck himself on Junmyeon’s cock, like he can’t stop, not until Junmyeon is satisfied too.

The effort has Junmyeon feeling almost helpless with affection. He milks the orgasm out of Zitao, then grabs his hips with both hands, and fucks into him hard and fast, completely using him up. Below him, Zitao is hiccuping moans, dragging his fingers through the come on his stomach, then sucking it off - pink tongue, red lips - as he watches Junmyeon fuck him.

It’s too much - Zitao moaning around his come-stained fingers has Junmyeon hurtling off the edge. He grinds his hips against Zitao’s ass, feeling his cock pump Zitao full of his come, even while Zitao’s hole milks him so perfectly. Junmyeon hisses, almost doesn’t want to slide out - thinks he could stay here until hard again, fuck Zitao as he deserves to be fucked a second time.

But Zitao is a mess, and Junmyeon wants to make sure he’s clean. He uses his mouth first - tongues at the come over Zitao’s skin until Zitao is stuttering, then kissing him shut a moment later, moaning when he tastes both Zitao and his spunk.

Finally, Junmyeon pulls away, stands up to look for a towel, which Zitao murmurs is in the bathroom right next door. Pulling on his undershorts and his unbuttoned shirt, Junmyeon makes the journey to bathroom and back, holding a towel and glass of water.

On the bed, Zitao is half-dressed too - shorts and a racerback tank that complements his shoulders. His hair is disheveled and there is still pink on his cheeks from the exertion. Beautiful, perfect Tao, thinks Junmyeon.

‘I’m sorry,’ says Zitao as Junmyeon lifts the tank and wipes at the remaining bits of come on his skin, then softly dots the sweat off Zitao’s hairline too, offering him water. ‘I - we - don’t know each other.’

‘We do,’ says Junmyeon, ‘just not that well.’

Zitao lowers his head, eyes shadowed. ‘I really like you, hyung.’

‘I do too,’ murmurs Junmyeon, leaning forward for a light kiss.

They fall back into bed, this time to sleep. Zitao holds Junmyeon close, mouth against his temple, and Junmyeon thinks this, at least, is a good thing.

  
  
  


When he wakes up, it’s early morning. Zitao is gone and Jongdae is there.

‘How?’ asks Junmyeon, still groggy.

‘I have something to tell you,’ answers Jongdae.

  
  
  


The graveyard is empty and dead-silent when Junmyeon arrives.

He walks through the long rows, snow crunching under his boot, with his hands tucked into his coat, mind awhirl, but muted under a layer of resolute grief that hangs around him constantly.

There’s no need to lie now, he thinks. The dead don’t need formalities and Junmyeon is too exhausted for them anyway. He sees his breath fog up as he says out loud, to the air, to himself: ‘I am running away.’

Running away from Zitao’s apartment, when Jongdae stood there, leaning back against the wall, looking seductive even in the early morning light with their suit and heels and careful, controlled movements.

‘You should’ve realized,’ says Jongdae as if that justifies anything while Junmyeon hurriedly dresses. ‘You should’ve realized he’s a demon.’

‘He eats, he sleeps,’ snaps Junmyeon, like he doesn’t know Jongdae couldn’t do that if they simply willed themselves to. ‘He - He takes pictures of trees and likes stories, I - don’t, Jongdae. Don’t do this to me.’

‘Do what?’ they challenge. ‘Tell you the obvious? Something you’ve probably already suspected in the back of your head?’

‘Why,’ says Junmyeon, his body trembling now, even under the layers of clothes he puts on himself. ‘Why didn’t you - you stop me, then?’

‘You said it yourself,’ says Jongdae. ‘We needed bait for the killer. You were the bait.’

‘And I have a death-wish, is that what you’re trying to say, Jongdae?’ he snaps, defensive, terrified.

‘Don’t you?’ Jongdae gestures at him, expression pained. ‘The first time was a surprise - but the second, third? Carrying around a demon’s memento to summon him, knowing where he was around - the area between the three victims. Did you suggest he kill Kyungsoo?’

Junmyeon flinches. Jongdae looks away.

‘Stop - stop pretending,’ says Jongdae, voice whisper-quiet. ‘Stop pretending the world is like this and that, when you don’t even believe it. All it does is hurt you.’

‘What do you want me to say, Jongdae? I killed a person I love,’ says Junmyeon. ‘I sold my soul to a demon to be damned. I am halfway in love with another demon. I don’t even know if I want to stop them from murdering, when I _should_. I _should_ be fighting this evil. I _have to_ or else - or else - ’

‘Or else I can’t be _me_ ,’ says Junmyeon, wanting Jongdae to understand. ‘I can’t be Kim Junmyeon anymore.’

‘The old you is dead,’ they reply, voice flat. ‘He died when you shot me in the head.’

Which brings Junmyeon here, at Jongdae’s grave, wiping the layer of snow from the stone with his gloved hands. Even though it’s still morning, the sky is coated in grey clouds, and the sunlight filters weakly through. He doesn’t have any offerings in his bag, so he places Zitao’s umbrella before the grave, waits.

Zitao walks out from behind a row of graves, dressed beautifully, his expression painted with a tender sort of sorrow, utterly perfect for where they are.

‘Hyung,’ he says when he stands behind the grave, eyes downcast, unable to look at Junmyeon. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘So - what are you?’ asks Junmyeon, kneeling down and tracing out Jongdae’s name with the tip of his finger, getting all the snow off meticulously.

‘An incubus,’ replies Zitao. ‘That’s why you always fell asleep around me.’

‘I knew that,’ says Junmyeon. The words fall heavily from his tongue - the first time he admits it out loud. Confirms it for the world. ‘I meant - are you good or bad?’

Zitao tips his head to the side. ‘I’m a demon, hyung.’

‘That would classify you as bad.’

‘Then you’re bad too,’ he replies simply, not trying to scold. ‘You never stopped me.’

‘I didn’t,’ agrees Junmyeon, standing up now, looking at Zitao and his lovely face. ‘I didn’t… want to.’

‘It was for good.’

‘The person I was… two years ago would disagree,’ he says with a wry smile.

‘But this is you too,’ says Zitao as he reaches out, cups Junmyeon’s cheek in one warm, bare hand. Absolutely a demon, and yet Junmyeon couldn’t pull away even if he tried. ‘Why are you so sad?’

Junmyeon’s eyes burn. ‘I don’t want to be evil, Tao. After I sold my soul, I was so scared I would continue - continue killing people.’

Zitao goes quiet, doesn’t reply, but doesn’t move away either.

‘I-I don’t want to be _bad_ ,’ manages Junmyeon, feeling like he’s going to choke on it all, everything building in his chest since that day dragging itself out of his throat. ‘I _knew_ myself - before, before I met a demon. I was so sure about what I was doing in that moment - saving Jongdae from a killer, but I-I got the wrong one, and after that - ’

He feels foolish, standing here with tears running down his cheeks. Still, the world waits. Jongdae’s grave stands there, a monument before Junmyeon, reminding him so much of everything, and there is Zitao still soothing him with touch and silence. Waiting. He has to finish this.

‘To frame Jongdae as the killer, then damn them to that same demon’s body.’ Junmyeon makes a pained noise. ‘Yet I can’t - I can’t look at them like I made a mistake. Have you seen Jongdae - they’re so _beautiful_ as a demon, and _you_ , Zitao, are perfect too - and I’m in love with the same creatures that kill innocent people, the - the _old_ Junmyeon would _never_ \- he wouldn’t - ’

‘You don’t know that,’ murmurs Zitao, stepping around Jongdae’s grave to fold Junmyeon into himself. ‘You will never know that about yourself - the old you is long gone.’

Shivering, Junmyeon presses closer, feeling small and pathetic, sobbing openly. ‘When you killed those people - when I found out _why_ , I couldn’t - I thought they’re not innocent, they were paying the price for their actions - but how can I - how can I _think_ that when _I’m_ here - Jongdae’s blood on my hands - ’

‘You’ve paid your price,’ says Zitao into his ear. ‘You gave your soul.’

Junmyeon lets out a broken laugh. ‘And in exchange, I have powers of both the divine and the demonic.’

‘That you use to punish those who haven’t paid the price,’ he continues, voice still so soft, careful with his words.

‘The old Junmyeon...’ he trails off.

‘Is still you,’ finishes Zitao. ‘You’re still you - and you’re still so _good_.’ Junmyeon presses his face into Zitao’s chest, hoards the warmth, as Zitao continues. ‘You’re still in this job, making sure people don’t hurt others, putting your life on the line to keep them safe. That’s _good_ , hyung. You’ve always been good.’

He shudders hard, crying louder, feels like he’s got a year’s worth of tears in him, ready to spill out. With a soft noise, Zitao holds him, burying his face in Junmyeon’s hair, trying to ease him.

Zitao is so steady, warm, _wonderful_ \- and, _and_ , ‘you believe I’m good,’ says Junmyeon through his gross sniffles.

‘Why do you think you have two demons after you,’ murmurs Zitao with a gentle smile. ‘We only want those who _are_ good.’

Standing there, Junmyeon holds on tight, keeps close, and thinks. More than he probably should. Of everything he’s done till now, of what he _wants_ to do, of what _should_ be done, and then lastly of Jongdae, who always stuck close to him, through each day.

Eventually, Junmyeon takes a deep breath, has Zitao kiss his cheeks, temple, mouth, and goes home.

  
  
  


Even midday, the apartment seems tragically dim. Junmyeon sees that Jongdae has cleaned up - something they do when they have something on their mind that irritates him. It makes them irritated at everything else until they’ve fixed it up to satisfaction.

It’s only one of the quirks Junmyeon has learned about Jongdae. There is so much more - dozens and dozens of things that Junmyeon has observed and taken in and known and learned, all of it filed in his head under _his Jongdae_ , to be remembered and passed over with a sense of warmth, intimacy.

The scent of cigarettes lingers through the living room, strongest from the kitchen, where the lights are on. Junmyeon hovers in the doorway, watching Jongdae leaning back against the counter, blowing a stream of smoke out the open window over the sink.

‘I made tea,’ murmurs Jongdae, hand gesturing lazily to the table where there’s a mug, still steaming hot.

‘Jongdae,’ starts Junmyeon, hesitant, careful.

‘Sit down,’ they say, taking another long drag. Junmyeon does as told, swallowing down the bubbling anxiety. He can’t even look at the tea, just watches how the light cuts across Jongdae’s cheekbone, lines their lashes in white, how their lips look around a cigarette burning down to a stub.

They finally stub the stick out in the sink, throw it out in the trash, before turning towards Junmyeon.

‘You at least look better than before,’ says Jongdae, slicing into Junmyeon’s thoughts. ‘Did you figure something out?’

‘I’m not fine,’ says Junmyeon, so exhausted that he feels dreamy. ‘I’m not - ’ His throat tightens around the words; he chokes.

Jongdae comes to the table with a mug, placing it in front of Junmyeon, standing there watching. Junmyeon turns towards them, hands on Jongdae’s hips, and leans his temple against their abdomen, feeling the softness against his skin of the black button-up Jongdae always wears. ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispers, and though he’s said it dozens of times before, this time feels so much more different, weighed down by months of history, his own conscience, his sincerity in making Jongdae understand.

He feels Jongdae’s fingers run through his hair, gentle, and then again, petting him, soothing him. ‘I know.’ Their voice is whisper-soft. ‘Hyung, I know.’

Unable to help it, Junmyeon’s hands move from Jongdae’s hips to the belt buckle, undoes it with deliberate slowness. Jongdae doesn’t stop him. He peeks up from under his lashes, traces his gaze over how absolutely _beautiful_ Jongdae is - their eyes, their mouth, the way they take care of Junmyeon, always, _always_ , even after _everything_.

‘I love you,’ says Junmyeon as he pets Jongdae’s cock from over the silk of the red suit pants, getting them hard. ‘I love you so much.’

‘Do you?’ Jongdae’s lips curve at the corner, dimpled with enough disbelief to prick at Junmyeon’s ego. ‘Show me.’

‘Yes,’ exhales Junmyeon, finally having permission. He draws the zipper down, finds bare, warm skin underneath. He never got to do this to Jongdae before - but now, _now_ , this is a familiar act. Maybe that’s the reward for all that Junmyeon has done - that after he finds killers and saves people, he still gets to keep Jongdae for himself, finally get to _touch_ him in every single way.

This is how he sucks Jongdae’s cock - sloppy and wet and _good_ , moans reverberating through the small kitchen, bouncing off the linoleums and the cheap faux-woodwork of the table to come back to Junmyeon, drown him in how slutty he gets when he can get his hands all over Jongdae, his beautiful Jongdae.

Jongdae always has the loveliest sighs, Junmyeon’s name caught between their lips, roughened up with desire, and Junmyeon can’t help but how it gets to him. In the kitchen chair, he spreads his thighs, feels himself get so hard as he hears a perfectly deep, ‘ _yes_ , like that, hyung’ when Junmyeon tongues the cockridge.

‘Is this how you love me?’ asks Jongdae as their cock lies heavy and hot on Junmyeon’s tongue, stretching the corners of his lips with the thickness. Junmyeon groans, sucking hard, cheeks hollowing out, as his hands paw at Jongdae’s hips, wanting more, somehow, _please_. ‘Think you can prove your worth by sucking me off?’

Junmyeon shuts his eyes, bobs his head faster, tries to make Jongdae understand, this is more than love, this is apology too - With nails gone sharp into Jongdae’s hips, he pulls them closer, deepthroats their cock, eyes open and teary as he looks up at Jongdae.

So hard and desperate now, Junmyeon moans when he sees Jongdae gazing down at him, eyes dark and expectant. Like they know Junmyeon could offer more, hasn’t given himself up perfectly yet, not just with this. Junmyeon pulls off Jongdae’s cock, mouth wet and swollen, still close enough for the crown to smear precome and saliva over his cheek, and mewls, can’t form words for what he wants, just wants to give, please, ‘love you, Jongdae, so much, I’m sorry - ’

And Jongdae is picking him up - so _easy_ , like Junmyeon is _nothing_ \- and taking him to Junmyeon’s room. It’s messy, thinks Junmyeon hazily. Everything thrown around - clothes and papers and accessories - and the paint on the wall is chipping and the window sill is cracked along the bottom and one of his dresser drawers always sticks out and it’s all a mess, everything falling apart, and - and - and -

‘Jongdae,’ gasps out Junmyeon, his spine pressed to the wall beside his bedroom wall, Jongdae’s fingers slick with Junmyeon’s lube, opening up his ass, careful, slow, like Junmyeon is as fragile as everything here. ‘ _Jongdae_.’

‘I know,’ says Jongdae. Their eyes are so dark and overwhelming as they work Junmyeon loose, letting Junmyeon drag his nails over the blood-red silk suit jacket, trying for a grip, even when he’s held up by just Jongdae’s arm around his waist.

‘Love you,’ he gasps, dragging his bottom lip under his teeth, as he feels Jongdae’s cock push at his rim, enter him slow and steady. ‘I’m sorry - I’m sorry - ’

‘Hyung,’ and Jongdae is fucking him now, deep, hard thrusts, and Junmyeon can’t struggle away. He’s pinned - shoulders shoved up against the wall, grip on Jongdae’s shoulders, as he simply _takes_ Jongdae’s cock, fucked until he can’t _think_ anymore. Everything comes down to how good Jongdae screws into him, makes him moan, has him breaking Jongdae’s names in pathetic, hiccuping noises that they fuck out of him.

Like this, Junmyeon can only watch Jongdae’s face, the gorgeous flush painted over their cheekbones, the way their mouth falls open, the lovely ways they groan ‘hyung, _hyung_ , you’re so - ’, an unfinished thought that hangs between them both, caught in the motions of sex.

Overwhelmed by it all, Junmyeon buries his face against Jongdae’s throat, ass going tight around the cock working him open so hot and perfectly like this. Jongdae moans from deep within their chest, mouth bumping against the shell of Junmyeon’s ear, so the sound slides straight down Junmyeon’s spine into his cock hanging heavy and hard between his spread thighs, dripping precome.

‘God, love you, fuck, _fuck_ ,’ sobs Junmyeon, so gloriously hard as he keeps getting fucked, hearing the way Jongdae’s voice stutters around hyung so close and personal that it’s amazing he hasn’t come yet. He could - just like this, from Jongdae nailing into his ass so deep and good, making sure Junmyeon can do nothing more than squirm on their dick, moan their name so loud and pathetic.

‘That’s right, hyung,’ says Jongdae, like they know how close Junmyeon is to the edge, ‘show me, _show me_.’ Junmyeon can only hiccup in reply, clutching Jongdae’s shoulders, and rolls his hips down, meets every thrust. The pace is frantic now - with Junmyeon’s eagerness, desperation, as he mouths wetly along Jongdae’s throat, muffles his moans against the skin, feels how deep and thick Jongdae’s cock is as they rock into him.

‘God, I’m gonna - I’m - ’ cries out Junmyeon, unable to ignore the tightening in his gut, how his orgasm is right there, drawing his balls tight. ‘I’m sorry, fuck, I’m _sorry_ \- _Jongdae_ \- ’ He feels Jongdae’s arm around his waist, the other hand spreading his ass, holding him open, giving it to him - all of it, all that Jongdae has, all that Junmyeon can’t acknowledge at any other time except this -

‘Hyung,’ says Jongdae, their voice low, rasping, right into Junmyeon’s ear, ‘I forgive you,’ and Junmyeon’s brain whites out, has him blowing his load in thick white stripes all over Jongdae’s suit jacket, button-up, staining him. He wants to apologize for that too, at some point, but the words don’t come, just an endless litany of, _Jongdae Jongdae Jongdae_ as Jongdae fucks the orgasm out of him.

Boneless, wiped out, Junmyeon can only slump his weight against the wall, but it doesn’t matter, Jongdae holds him up and keeps him there until they can finish. He watches as Jongdae keeps fucking him, using his body, his ass, to milk their cock. Except that Jongdae pulls out after a dozen thrusts, lets Junmyeon down on wobbling legs, before making a silent, sharp gesture for Junmyeon to kneel.

And Junmyeon does, no hesitation.

With a gorgeous, loud noise, Jongdae comes on his face, warm and wet.

Staring up at them, Junmyeon thinks the way Jongdae smears the come over his temple feels like a benediction.

  
  
  


Junmyeon dreams of nothing.

  
  
  


It’s snowing again when Junmyeon visits Jongdae’s grave - this time on the proper day. He’s brought chrysanthemums, ‘for longevity,’ he tells Jongdae, who stands beside him, a crimson mark against the bleak grey background of the cemetery.

Jongdae laughs - a loud, lovely sound that echoes out, heard by no one except Junmyeon. He can feel himself smile, for the first time, as he kneels down to clean the gravestone with a gloved hand.

‘You don’t need to do that,’ says Jongdae after a moment.

‘It’s your death-versary,’ replies Junmyeon.

‘True.’ They gesture at the umbrella hanging off Junmyeon’s arm. ‘He can do it.’

Junmyeon looks over. ‘Zitao?’

‘You like him, don’t you?’ Jongdae doesn’t sound accusing. More knowing than anything else.

‘I’m fond,’ he says, then pauses. ‘Or in love, hard to say.’

‘Is this your new emotional crisis for the next year,’ they sneer.

‘Shut up.’ Junmyeon finishes cleaning the gravestone, then lays the flowers gently at the base. ‘I - I’ve decided things.’

Jongdae waits.

Taking the umbrella from his arm, Junmyeon opens it, holds it over his head, and looks up at the black underside. ‘I want to keep chasing bad guys, bad demons. I want to keep people safe. I want you to stay with me too - for as long as you would like.’ He twirls the umbrella once, twice. ‘And I want - I want…’

‘It’s okay,’ says Jongdae quietly, ‘to be greedy for once, when you’ve already gone through so much.’

Junmyeon lowers the umbrella and looks at Jongdae, at the understanding in their expression. ‘I want you and Zitao both.’

Jongdae smiles, brilliant and beautiful. ‘You can.’

‘Any conditions?’

‘Let me meet him,’ they say. ‘Let me… have him, for a while.’

‘You’ll need his permission,’ says Junmyeon, voice dry. ‘I bet he’s around here by now.’

‘Call him out,’ says Jongdae. ‘Let’s all talk - somewhere else too. This place is depressing.’

Junmyeon laughs at that, laughs long and loud, too much for the occasion - but his voice is unused to the sound, and he has to try to remember it, thinks to practice it more, at least for Jongdae’s sake.

  
  
  


Jinki’s desk is meticulously organized - folders stacked up and papers spread in seemingly artful rows before him, as he watches, with a small smile, at Junmyeon sitting on the chair across from him. ‘The rumours are already here - that you’re either divine or an occultist.’

‘I just look for things other people don’t,’ says Junmyeon, easy, practiced.

He has a moment where he wonders if Jinki’s enigmatic smile means he can see what is happening in the chair beside Junmyeon.

Not that it’s scandalous. Just Jongdae in their perfectly cut suit, legs crossed and feet arched in pretty heels, a hand idly combing through Zitao’s dark hair as Zitao kneels on the floor beside Jongdae.

When Junmyeon had imagined Jongdae would take Zitao, he probably should’ve expected this sort of submission. Still, sometimes he’s surprised at how readily Zitao takes to it - soon Jongdae might even be impressed enough with Zitao’s good behaviour to fuck him. That would be a sight.

‘There’s also rumours that you have a partner,’ continues Jinki, gaze steady on Junmyeon.

Junmyeon shakes his head. ‘I have two now.’

‘Added one?’

‘Very recently,’ replies Junmyeon. ‘I’ll update them both as we go along.’

Taking a folder from the pile, Jinki opens it up and hands it across the desk to Junmyeon. ‘Then here’s your copy of the case.’

‘I’ll get to work right away.’

Beside him, Jongdae stretches their arms over their head, purring out, ‘Taozi,’ so Zitao will stand up. ‘C’mon - let’s hunt down some bad guys - or demons - then.’

Junmyeon sneaks a glance beside him - sees both Jongdae and Zitao smiling - and, for a moment, can’t seem to regret a single thing he did to get here.

-

**Author's Note:**

> this was an experimental fic, at best. anyway - happy halloween, hope you enjoyed~!!


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